Faramir rode slowly down the stone paths of Minas Tirith, his head bowed. His horse's hooves brushed against bouquets of flowers, tossed by the women. Faramir was careful to guide his horse between the blossoms. All else had already been crushed- hope, peace, happiness. He did not wish to crush this last display of faith in his men. In him.

The silence was broken by a shout from the crowd. "Faramir! Faramir!" It was Mithrandir, with his usual advice. "Your father's will has turned to madness! Do not throw away your life so rashly!"

"Where does my allegiance lie, if not here?" replied Faramir curtly. It was not a question, and Mithrandir did not attempt to answer it. There was nothing the wizard could say to dissuade Faramir from this- his last chance to show his worth. Perhaps there was no worth to show. Perhaps his father had been right. If he had died, and Boromir had lived, would Gondor still hold Osgiliath? Would the honor of his family yet be intact? There was no way to know.

"Your father loves you, Faramir!" Mithrandir called as he dropped back.

Faramir did not turn his head. He knew that his father did not love him. He never had. All Faramir could do was attempt to gain the steward's respect, and this was the only way.

The massive doors of the city opened. Faramir urged his horse to a trot and left the security of Minas Tirith. He reminded himself that if he failed in his mission, the White City would no longer be secure. And this mission was almost certain to fail.

Faramir set out across Pelennor Fields. Osgiliath seemed much further away than it was. Just as death had always seemed far away. It was near, now. Every stride of his horse's legs, every ragged breath he took, brought him closer... and closer...

A memory rose unbidden in his mind. Boromir's face. He could see it as if it were there in front of him. The emotion he had seen in Boromir's eyes as they parted filled Faramir's head. He knew that the same look had been on his own face, that day that should have been joyful. Boromir had loved him as Denethor never would. There was a gaping hole in Faramir's heart, where his brother had been. The company began to gallop toward Osgiliath.

The last words his brother had spoken to him rang in Faramir's ears. "Remember this day, little brother." He had never forgotten it. And he would never forget this one, either. The day Boromir had left marked his death to Faramir. This day would mark his own.

Faramir drew his sword. He would die fighting. Fighting for Gondor, for his father, for his people, and for his brother.

The orcs aimed their arrows.

"Boromir," he whispered, "I'm coming."